


Temerian Poplars

by Fen_Assan



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, Explicit Language, F/M, Masturbation, Smut, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26568226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan
Summary: Geralt is looking for Yennefer, but she seems to get further away with every step he takes. After a particularly annoying day, he decides to take matters into his own hands.Please be warned of the explicit language both in terms of sex and swearing. Specifically, here's your warning about the "c" word. It isn't used as an insult but in its literal meaning. No disrespect meant, but since this is in Geralt's POV, I doubt he'd be calling it her "love tunnel".
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 23
Kudos: 35





	Temerian Poplars

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fanfic in ages, but I just started another playthrough of The Wild Hunt yesterday, and this here thing just happened today haha. I love this game, and this world, and Geralt, and I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing.

Twigs crunched under his mud-caked boots as he walked out of a thicket. At least it was dry here and the muck from the drowner-infested bog started to flake off. He helped it by occasionally kicking a tree or a stone with his boot. That also helped alleviate his frustration somewhat. 

He had been following Yennefer so closely it seemed impossible she was not just around the bend in the winding road across the vast expanse of this land. But she never was. Instead, there were monsters snatching the weak and the helpless, drunkards making their own lives and those of others more miserable, there was war. And there was always something else, someone else, keeping him away from looking for her, from finding her. Geralt sighed. It sounded closer to a growl. That was apparently what a hare thought as it darted away from him into the bushes. He barely spared it a glance. He could eat, but did not feel like hunting. Or cooking. Or bothering with any of that really. 

For a while he questioned his choice to leave Roach at the inn stables, but walking suited him now. He flexed the fingers on his left hand, balled it into a first, relaxed, grunted. All the better that Vesemir had stayed at the inn. Would have been pathetic had his old master seen the pupil he called Wolf nearly chewed by one. What the fuck had he been trying to prove running into the middle of a pack like that? The gashes on his arm and hand were already closing up slowly, but it was pitiful how he had handled that. The fact there was no pack left offered little consolation. Geralt liked wolves, respected them. But those stupid kids had been in trouble. Were they stupid though? Was risking hiding in a forest or even a bog worth stealing a few kisses? He doubted they'd had time for much else. Growling, he stomped through a field, sending caked mud flying. He had to admit to himself though that he might have done the same if he could only spend some time alone with Yennefer. 

He sighed and stopped his trek through the fields. It would be dark soon and he'd be able to do little about talking to locals at night, but he didn't feel like returning to the inn yet. True, gwent might make him forget - no, just not focus as sharply - for a bit, but he was sick and tired of this nagging emptiness the absence of Yen left him with. And they said witchers didn't feel a thing. Fuck them. 

He turned westward, facing the red setting sun which was beginning to paint the sky every colour from gold to black to pink and violet. And all that magnificent display did was bloody remind him of Yen again. The gold that didn't agree with her complexion. Only silver for her. The stark contrast of black and white of her ever perfectly fitting clothes. The violet of her eyes and the pink of her lips and her… Yes, her lips were so naturally pale they only turned pink after he kissed her mercilessly. Or after they closed around the width of his cock. Fuck. 

Yeah, maybe that. He just needed a good fuck, that was all. He stomped on towards a grove away from scattered houses. He had noticed a few local women give him obvious looks, but that was not it. Not now. 

Geralt smirked at the irony as at that very moment he saw a young woman step out of the field and lift her skirts to shake the straw off them. Appreciation of female beauty was apparently stronger than himself. He shook his head, but then the woman looked up at the dramatic wilderness the setting sun was painting in the sky and just stood there, still, with her arm shading her eyes. The light shone through her clothes and Geralt's Witcher sight gifted him a glorious view of the outline of the woman's body. She looked ethereal. Out of this world. Or exactly from it, born out of its suffering and beauty. 

This was a beautiful land. Even as it was being ravaged by war, it held on to its brave, desperate pride, its hopeless striving to remain itself. He saw it in its men's callused hands as they smashed their empty tankards on the stained and worn tavern tables, and in the sharp chins of its women as they cast defiant glances at the black-clad soldiers. Nilfgaard was there. But this was not Nilfgaard. The Temerian lilies could still be found. And she, this woman, she was one of those. A Temerian silver lily. That he was not the one to pick. 

Geralt wanted a drink. And a fuck. And… no, he would never admit he wanted a hug. Witchers were not the hugging type. Or the needing. 

"Fuck that," he grumbled, lamenting leaving a near-empty bottle of vodka in his saddlebags. Having reached a poplar grove, he went straight through the trees, away from people, away from everything. 

He stood by a tree, suddenly aware of his full bladder, and sighed in relief taking a long piss. He cracked his neck one way and the other, and a bit of tension seemed to have left his body. He ought to meditate, he thought, and, kneeling, he let the world with everything in it be for an hour or so. 

His awareness was just under the surface the whole time, but he was grateful his eyes did not need to snap open. He could afford the luxury of getting back to the waking world slowly. He was relaxed now. If that could be said about Witchers at all. He lay down on the ground, spreading his elbows and propping his head with his hands on the moss covered with dried leaves. He squinted, looking up. 

The poplar trees rustled loudly in the breeze as if talking to each other. Their leaves fluttered in the wind, scattering the last sunbeams of the day. The moving silver-backed leaves looked like earrings on a dancing girl’s head. Their song was quiet and soothing, but it stirred something in him again. Or the image of a dancing girl did. He imagined Yen, dancing by a bonfire, wearing plain white linens, hitching her skirt up to jump, standing in front of the source of light. Yes, she would do that. She would do anything to provoke him. To entice him. She would drive him mad one day - she was driving him mad even not being around. 

He sat, propping himself up against a tree trunk. This was stupid. He was not a dumb kid whipping his bulging cock out in a grove thinking of a woman. And yet he had done just that. He squeezed his length and just held it, then switched hands. The pain from the not-yet properly healed wolf bite wounds at the back of his left hand heightened the pleasure as he grabbed his cock and stroked roughly up and down. His eyes closed of their own accord and his thoughts went back to that fantasy of Yen in a peasant woman's dress. 

In it, her face lit up with a knowing and approving smile when she felt his hardness under her fingers. 

"Naughty Witcher," she whispered into his ear, her husky voice a caress. She nuzzled at his neck and kissed him long and tenderly on the mouth, only to bite his chin and then kiss him again, pull at his ear and then kiss him again. As if stepping aside for a moment to be an observer, Geralt had to congratulate himself: this was a very believable fantasy. Yen was like that, pleasure and pain combined, one intensifying the other. 

His breath came more raggedly as he palmed and pulled at the head of his cock with his right hand while gripping the rest of it with his left. He thought of Yen, in that simple dress made sheer by the firelight, the outline of her breasts with pale nipples he missed turning dark so much, her wet mouth and her hot cunt. He gripped his cock right below the head and thrust his hips. And although he was not sheathed in her, it felt so fucking good. But no, he would not think of her inviting him or him claiming his place between her legs, it was not something he could feel now. Instead, he brought to mind her deft fingers, her skillful hands. Like she used to, he pressed his cock against his stomach and stroked the underside quickly, his ass clenching and hips thrusting again with pleasure and desire at once. 

He squeezed himself again, pausing for a few seconds, and, spitting on his palm, rubbed faster, switching hands. He breathed as if he was fighting a Griffin - or fucking Yennefer of Vengeberg indeed. He opened and closed his eyes, as if in delirium, seeing Yen, naked, mischief in her eyes and tongue licking her glistening upper lip as she beckoned him closer. Then fully robed in black, armour-like and impenetrable gown, staring him down like an incoming storm ready to unleash lightning. Then dancing around a bonfire with young men and women and suddenly running away. He ran after her through the woods, branches lashing at him. When he finally caught up, she turned to face him and was not Yen at all, but the woman he had seen earlier captivated by the sunset. He admired her chestnut hair falling in heavy waves around her face, and suddenly there was Yen again, approaching them both, smiling and arching a brow at Geralt and kissing the other woman.

Tremors announcing his approaching climax ran along his whole body. He pulled down on his balls and with a heavy grunt which scared the birds off the trees, spent himself onto the fallen leaves. 

"Fuck, Yen," he whispered heavily, wiping the drops of sweat off his forehead with the back of his injured hand. A long slow breath hissed from his mouth. He felt a little better, he supposed, a little less tense. But also, he felt destitute without her. And stupid for it. What had that guy from the tavern, Gaunter O'Dimm ask, was this for love? Well it was none of his fucking business. None at all, that Geralt of Rivia, Butcher of Blaviken, a mutant and a monster, desperately, angrily, achingly, loved a woman. 

He stood, brushing the leaves off his clothes.

"After I find you, you won't be able to walk straight for a week, Yen," he promised aloud, addressing the poplar trees as they silently witnessed him tie his pants back up.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and let me know what you think!


End file.
